I’ve been trying to get down to the heart of the matter November 9, 2009

I’ve been tryin’ to get down to the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it’s about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore
- Don Henley

If you’ve been missing me, it’s because instead of being here, I’ve been here.  I’m trying to broaden my writing endeavors, and in the coming months, I hope to have some juicy tidbits over at Naked Admonition. It’s a partner blog with A.C.T. of Blaxplanation, to ultimately serve as a communication bridge between men and women.

Let’s talk a bit about letting go.  That is some of the hardest shit to do in the world.  I recently came to the realization that, though I’m pretty good at keeping my life going in the midst of adversity, loss or heartbreak, actually letting go is not my strong point.  I can cry about things that happened years ago for no other reason than the fact that I’m having a bad day.

Recently, on one of those bad days, I began thinking of a person in my past that hurt me, somewhat out of the blue.  This hurt has never quite fit in the scar category, because a scar is a badge representing your ability to heal.  I was fully prepared, at the outset of this post, to detail why I was so hurt by him and so destroyed by him, and there was a barrage of “how could/dare hes.” Yeah.  No.  Because it is SO water under the bridge and irrelevant.

The tricky thing is that I love him still.  Not in the “in love” way.  I can get past hurt feelings; a broken heart is a horse of another color.  But that being said, logically, I should hate him, and that’s something that just isn’t in me to do.  And so I have accepted the fact that I will always love him.  I will always want the best for him.  I have also accepted that if I want to have any progress in my emotional life, I have to let those emotions be. I’ll send nothing but positive vibes his way, but the past is just that.  I owe myself that much.

As the great negro poet Shawn Carter says, “I wish for you a hundred years of success, but it’s my time.”

Oh my damn October 31, 2009

I had a post planned for today.  it was deep and insightful and gave you a peek into my soul.  I was goign to talk about how I can’t deal with dishonesty or something.  That was before the wine.  Before the Spanish Spanish wine (yes, “Spanish” was written twice intentionally).  Crianza folks.  Crianza is the truth.  Crianza is what made me forget that I wanted to preach.  It just makes me want to be.  So much wine tonight.  so much good music.  I had such a rough day today, so I was glad to enjoy my own company.  I look forward to reading this post tomorrow and finding an embarrassing typo.

Smooches.

P.S.  Does anyone have any sexual intercourse that they can pass me?  I’m fresh out.  Thanks.

Disconnected October 27, 2009

It dawned on me the other day that I haven’t been very social.  I’ve sort of been, net, phone, work, with rare exception.  I am focusing on writing my book, but I feel so far removed from everybody, it’s unbelievable.  I’m trying to stop speaking my issues with autumn into existence and make it a positive, albeit tough, season for me.

With that being said, I feel disjointed – removed from everything.  It leads to me being discombobulated, and a bunch of other dis-es.  There are things that I’m not happy with.  There are things that aren’t progressing in the way that I would like (i.e. my weight loss).  But I just gotta keep moving forward. That’s my remedy.  I’m hoping to be back with a blog post this week, but the LadyBug is sick.  It doesn’t seem to be influenza de el puerco, but I’m keeping an eye on her.  That beign said, I hope to be re-connected soon.

Smooches

Rough Mommy Days October 17, 2009

One of the biggest obstacles I have that keep me fron the title of “Bomb Ass Mom,” is my lack of organization.  I forget birthdays, I misplace progress reports, I forget to take ground meat out of the freezer so we have to eat out more often then I am comfortable.  Oh, and the shit I lose:  house keys, car keys, umbrellas, shoes, coupons.  It’s just a hot ghetto mess.

When I look at friends who have compartments and shelves and containers for shit, I just sit and marvel, because I have no idea how they get things that way.  I have even less of an idea of how they KEEP them that way.  And let me tell you, training my kids is even harder, because I don’t even know what I’M doing.  The domestic diva is my Achilles heel.  This year’s gift to myself (because lovelies, birthday season is upon us), is organization.  Being able to look for something and put my hands on it in less than a minute would be invaluable.

So, yeah.  Let’s get it.

Free October 16, 2009

You ever feel like you’re plumbing the depth of your inner being for the greatness?  I’m feeling SO good about the process of my book.  I read O Magazine (we are now up to three consecutive issues purchased), when she interviewed Jay Z.  In it, he discussed how he would never be able to duplicate “Reasonable Doubt,” because it was 26 years in the making.  Can you imagine pouring 26 years of your soul into 16 tracks?  For some reason, that reached me more than I figured it would.

I was speaking to old ACT the other day, and he schooled me on the difference between me and writers that have attained the physical manifestations of  success: they don’t give a damn about the naysayers and what they thing.  I care too damn much.  And I have spent my entire life caring and not caring.  Trying to walk the line that divides being pleasing to claiming my rights to myself.

I’ve always had a bit of a spark.  When your parents are trying to breed a southern lady, sparks aren’t always understood and embraced, so I always felt silenced, so I retreated into my books.  Eventually, reading wasn’t enough, so I picked up my own pen and I wrote, and I wrote and I wrote.  EVERYTHING.  I wrote contracts with my parents.  I wrote instructions to anything that required instructions.  I wrote my name.  I wrote the names of my crushes.  I wrote the word “write” on bathroom walls.  Discovering writing made me totally forget that I should be interested in boys.  When I was 16, after years of “playing around” (because only reserving my skill for essays and such is totally someone else’s game), I started taking classes.  “There’s a story there.”  That was Ms. West’s mantra.  (At the time I thought, “Bitch, I just GAVE your punk ass a story.)  She taught me that even the most well-told story – ESPECIALLY the most well-told story – contained a deeper story.  “Yes, but WHY does she sit on the stoop every day?  Did she used to wait for someone there?  A child?  A spouse?  I’d like to see you examine that in your next assignment.”

Creating is one of the most empowering activities in which one can ever engage.  You are the boss of your shit, and no one can take your thought.  But I was still not sharing, so to an extent, I was still voiceless.  Outwardly, I was loud, I was calloused, but it was all a front because I felt like the people that I needed to understand me were looking through me.  I can’t explain what that does to an adolescent who desperately needs acknowledgment.  It’s not that I wasn’t loved, I just felt as though people didn’t know who they were loving.  A large part of it was due to the fact that they had limited interest in my writing.  To date, I think my dad believes the only thing I know how to write are emails requesting money.

So remembering all that, I picked up my pen and pad, and I just started writing.  I started writing like a person without a family.  It doesn’t matter who won’t like it, or even who will feel uncomfortable with my thoughts, because they are MY thoughts, and anyone on the outside knows nothing of my struggle.  I’m living by the motto “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”  Breaking that seal caused the ideas to flow.  I can’t stop writing.

And I’m here now.  Working on my “Reasonable Doubt,” which will be 30+ years in the making.  And yes, I plan to show you how to do this, son.

I just wanted to say October 12, 2009

That Michael Jackson was found not guity TWICE, and went to court

EVERY

MUTHA

FUCKING

DAY!

And he was the joke of the industry. And the few friends that spoke on his behalf were treated like loons.

Roman Polanski’s nasty ass is documented as drugging and raping a 13 year old girl at his friend’s house while the friend’s girlfriend was THERE, and they give him Oscars and accolades.  You know what?  Fuck your post-racial times.

A mood October 12, 2009

Kind of a bad one actually.   I had to skip out on blogging and take it straight to the journal.  (Ohhhhh, if only you knew how juicy my journal is.)  Some of my worst anger is anger at myself for being angry.  I got issues.  Real ones.

I forgot to buy body butter.

My boobs hurt.

I can’t seem to shake off the problems of others.

I’m pretty sure that I want my baby daddy struck by lightening.

I will never be the person my father raised or wants me to be.

Bones is being run during perfectly good Law & Order hours on TNT.

The Fat Boys will never have a reunion.

Whenever a biopic is done about a man, it focuses on his struggle and success.  Whenever a biopic is done about a woman, it centers around her love life.  Yes, I’m talking to you “Amelia.”

The condescension that comes with being a woman is enough to make me slit a mofo from “his ass to his appetite.”

I want a laptop.

Sprint’s service sucks ass, and their “suggestion” was purchasing a $99 piece of equipment that costs $4.99 per month.  I’ve got to pay you extra so that I can stop dropping 25 calls + a day?  Fail.

I could go on, but you get the gist.  I just want to punch someone.

“Ain’t I a woman?” (c) Sojourner Truth September 22, 2009

While feeding my Twitter addiction, I came across this article, discussing Strong Black Woman Syndrome (“SBWS”).  In short, the author portrayed SWBS, particularly as it relates to single parents, downright detrimental to the mentality of our children, and the family structure as we know it.  On its face, it sounds very neat and tidy:  Your kids must know that having an absentee father is not cool.  They must realize this is not how things should be, and therefore, this will prevent them from perpetuating the cycle.  And to that, I have one question:  Word?

Certainly, transitioning to a man-basher following a break-up or abandonment is not a good look.  I know more than a few women that take up the “I don’t EEEEEEVEN need a man” mantle as a defense mechanism.  However, the large majority of the single mothers that I know are still actively dating, or at least waiting for the right opportunity.  Still others, when dating doesn’t work for them, still occasionally deal with the individual who rejected the cow but enjoys sampling the milk.  In the end, you’re looking at a woman with very human wants and desires on one hand, the seeming lack of options to meet those wants and desires on the other, and her world on her shoulders.  The most important part of that world is her responsibility as a parent.

At best, Ms. Seals Allers assertion is misguided, at worst, unfair.  Yes, I agree that Pops bouncing out, or acting the fool and ergo, forcing Moms Duke to bounce is by no means acceptable.  I agree that our families are in grave need of healing, guidance and counseling.  The topic of selecting a suitable and compatible partner is a discussion and/or post in its own rite.  Additionally, not all SBW are single…or mothers.  What of them?  It’s an oversimplification of a rather complex issue.

More often than not, donning the SBW cape is born of necessity rather than bravado.  I once read somewhere that the more you allow yourself to fall apart, the easier it becomes.  There is so much that you sacrifice as a single parent; I don’t see where it is helpful to anyone that dignity be among those things. Children depend on their parents to have things in control.  In a two income family, my parents went through hard times on a regular basis, yet, I didn’t realize how much so until I was an adult.  As parents, we’re the pilots; tell your passengers of every single struggle, they’re going to lose confidence in your airline.  Sure, passengers have responsibilities, but it’s our job to make the ride smooth.

There have been occasions where my kids have seen my cry or lose my cool, and it would leave them anxious and disjointed.  THEY don’t need a big world crash course because MY mate selection was poor.  When I recently had to drive to and from New Orleans on my covert ops mission, we hit a terrible rainstorm.  I was agitated, nervous and frustrated, and it was evident.  The kids had nothing to do with this, and yet, when they saw how the drive was weighing on me, THEY began to apologize for “making you come and get us.”  (Author’s note:  If you want me to wish for your slow and agonizing demise, create your own screw up and then have my kids apologize for wanting to escape your big bag of manure.)  Losing my caca in front of them to let them know that it’s not “easy?”  No thanks.

As a good parent, I share with them the importance of being responsible, choosing a spouse wisely, and forming a UNIT, rather than a temporary arrangement, with their spouse.  I stress the importance of cooperation, single parent or not, in the family unit, as well as the unnecessary difficulties that can be caused by a lack of cooperation.  They know that I budget.  We don’t go to the movies or out to dinner as much as any of us would like.  We have to wait to make purchases.  But what family doesn’t?  Just because this is not optimal, I am not going to beat my kids over the head with that fact.  I’m not going to tell my son that every study shows that he has a greater chance of going to prison than college.  I’m not going to tell my child that studies say that she’s got a greater chance of being struck by lightening than getting married.  I’d much rather spend my time buying him books on astronomy and encouraging her in her desire to be a veterinarian.

We exist in a world of participation awards and A’s for effort.  What world is this that you are criticized for displaying strength?  Yes, I want a lot of the same things women the world over want, but I can’t rock in the corner until I get those things. I don’t break down because I want them to be contenders and champions, rather than bench-warmers and by-standers. I’m determined to show them what guts, hard work and determination can yield, even when you feel like life has handed you a shit sandwich.

So, in all of that, “ain’t I a woman?”

Damn straight.

Matchless September 14, 2009

Me:  Hi Wind, meet Caution! [Hurtles Caution headlong and with all my might.]

I’ve always been the girl that allows relationships to develop organically.  There have been a few instances where chemistry was instant and I began dating a person almost off the bat, but that’s more of the exception.  I’ve always lived by the “friends first” creed.  At the end of the day, I want to like you if we’re ever broke.  I want to like you during the times where your soldier doesn’t salute.  I want to like you when your mother pisses me off.  In turn, I would like to establish a rapport that would afford me these same opportunities.

In my past, I’ve dated and even fallen in love with a few friends.  There’s a certain comfort that comes with a relationship like that, and I’m not so sure it can be duplicated with a person that you are sort of making yourself like.  I won’t say that these situations all ended on an ugly note, but there is a certain ugliness that comes with “the end.”  At that point, I gave up on dating good friends.  The “friendship zone” exists for a reason, and I’m more ready to accept that.  But now, I find myself in the foriegn position of actually having a problem getting a date.

So, somewhere around the middle of summer, I decided to join match.com.  There’s that saying, “If you do what you always done, you get what you always got.”  Keeping that in mind, I made the decision to take a proactive (I’ve always had issues with that word, because it sounds like made-up bandwagon-speak) approach to dating. You gotsta pose to be chose, right?  There couldn’t be any harm in testing the waters and seeing what’s out there.  Folks, “out there” sucks.

You ever walked into a party and as soon as you got there, you said, “This is not my scene.”  That was me on Match.  It felt like the Last Chance Highway of love – forced and jaded.   The people were either too happy to be there, too snarky, or too persistent (read: belligerent – I saw you winks.  I saw your emails.  All of them.  You’re already showing yourself to be a bugaboo and it’s only 48 hours.) The one brother who winked at me in my target range (I selected 31-42) was all sorts of the business that would catch my eye…if I lived in Akron.  Brother, what am I gonna do with you in Akron?

Everyone else was much older, multiple marriages, smacked of desperation,  unsure if they wanted children (how is this a match for me?)…you get the picture.  It got to the point where I would heave a sigh when I saw my daily “matches.”  What am I supposed to do with a 375 lb. Hawaiian man looking for his third wife?  iCan’t.  At the end of the day, I was putting myself in an environment that I wasn’t digging to, uh, meet someone that I would dig? Hmmm.  So I had to let go of the notion of finding a match — at least through Match.  I’ve had friends recommend other sites: blackpeoplemeet.com, eharmony.com, even onlinebootycall.com, but at the end, I’m still online with the specific purpose of looking for a date, and there’s something about that that just doesn’t jibe with me.   So, I guess the big question is, what now?

Nothing.  Not really.  I live near Washington, DC.  Why do I have to go online to meet BLACK PEOPLE?  I don’t want to be electronically harmonious with you.  I definitely don’t want someone to call for my booty online.* I want…hmmm…

I want a brother so smart, I have to look up the stuff he talks about.

I want a brother so steady, I can set my watch by him.

I want a brother so delicious, I lick my fingers after I’ve finished holding hands with him.

I want a brother that takes his mama to lunch and his daddy to football games.

I want a brother that enjoys my mind and gives consideration to my opinions.

I want a brother who knows how to tell me to check my mouth (because anything can be done when it’s done properly).

I want a man who finds me sexy.

I want a man who can tell me when I need to improve.

I want a brother to communicate when times are rough.

I want a brother that will see my family as his family.

I want a brother that likes, respects and appreciates the man that he is.

I want a brother with the capacity to visualize the man he will be.

I want a brother as wondrous as he is flawed.

I want a brother to think that none of the above is crazy, unreasonable or unfathomable.

That shouldn’t be too hard.

Right?

* I hear tell that Online Booty Call is attempting to morph into a legitimate dating site.  That’s all well and good, but you are the company you keep.  I’m not going to the crack house to look for a solid brother; I’m not going to OBC to look for the type of person I would be interested in dating.

“I don’t give a f*** about you or ya weak crew, whatcha gonna do when [Black Mamba] come for you?” September 13, 2009

My views of motherhood can be summed up in the statements made in the movie “Role Models.”

I am a lioness.  A black sheba.  I am a lioness, and this is my cub.  If you mess with my cub, I will claw your ass up until you shit sideways.”

That goes for you.  And you.  And anyone you bring with you. I’m not the perfect mother.  I’m sure if they walked into the crib and cookies were baking and I had apple slices on the table, AFTER they came to, they would probably call the Men in Black.  But I look out for those guys.  I want the best for them, and sometimes, I have to ask the hard question, is the best actually with me?

My place is small, I struggle financially (partially due to the fact that I can’t budget my way out of a wet paper bag/partially due to the fact that I’m sort of on my own), I’m burned out, I cuss and cry in front of my kids, and all those other things Claire Huxtable didn’t do.  When I had a conversation with their father this summer regarding them staying in New Orleans, however, I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea.  He’s generally unstable, the schools aren’t up to par, and I’m not exactly crazy about the ass backward corrupt political environment there.  He concurred, and actually said he was considering moving to be closer to them – to Maryland perhaps.

Imagine my surprise when, as the summer drew to a close, he became cagey in all conversations pertaining to their return.  There were times when he was arrogant (“Didn’t I tell you I would buy their ticket?”), befuddled (“I…I’m gonna make it work some kind of way”), and downright belligerent (“I’ll get the tickets when I get the tickets” is what he told our eight-year-old).  He stopped answering my phone calls, and when either his wife or the kids would answer, he was either asleep or “he just left.”

Finally, when the time showed that missing school was an inevitability, I spoke to Finge for the 411:

Um…he’s asleep.

It’s 7:30 at night.  He’s asleep every time I call [Finge]?

[Brief pause, then a whisper] No.  He tells us to tell you that.  He doesn’t want to talk to you.  Look, why don’t you just come get us.

That was Monday night.  Flying was not at all financially feasible, so Tuesday, I went in to work to give my peeps the heads up, and get some last minute advice, made the necessary preparations, and on Wednesday morning, I hit the road.  I napped in Tennessee, and was in New Orleans by 10:30 PM.  I do not play when it comes to kids in general. That goes double for any I brought into the world.

Since he didn’t seem to be concerned with talking to me, I cut all communication with him.  There was no ringing his phone like a bugaboo. There was no customary razor tongued voice mail messages.  I prayed for direction, gathered some records and documents that I felt would be helpful, and ultimately had a friend reach out to a friend who is a member of New Orleans’ finest.  One of the attorneys at my job cautioned me, “Do not bring a weapon.”  I figured my tire iron didn’t count.

When I called him, of course, he was “sleeping.”  I was insistent, and told him to bring them to his mother’s house at 1:00.  He had them there at 12:52.  I think my reaction, or lack thereof, had him concerned, and I think I like that.

However, I don’t think we’ll experience that concern again, because that was their last visit.  I had to get in my car and drive 18 hours because you don’t give enough of a fuck about your kids well being (because they were confused as fuck, and he was not even interacting with them), or their education (they missed a week of school), OR my time (because had he answered the phone, I could have bought their plane tickets and flown them home my damn self).  So the chapter of my concern for his relationship with them ended.  They’re not going back. I’m certain he will not call my phone.  My son is not allowed to talk to him on his cell phone without my presence.

Quite frankly, I don’t want his money.  I want his ass gone.  Disappeared.  No more here today gone tomorrow.  To quote Christian Bale, “We’re fucking done professionally.”  I can’t think of one thing that an erratic, irresponsible, IGNORANT fool such as him can add to their lives.  The Bug was calling me in tears on a regular basis.  Finge, though too cool for tears, could not hide his anger and confusion.  He actually had the gall to tell Finge NOT to talk to me on the phone.  Fortunately, I have a child with GOOD sense and he saw that for the bullshit that it was.  When he discovered that he was still talking to me, he stopped talking to him.  Yes.  He stopped talking to a 10 year old for calling his mother.

So yah pumpkins.  That’s been my story of the last few weeks, and why I have been MIA.  But, I’m back, and I’m ready to hit you with some more realness.

So apparently, the answer the the question posed at the outset is, make yourself scarce as possible, because when I hit the field, I’m not looking to play reindeer games.  I’m playing to win.